Dirty Gin
by Polgaria
Summary: Miranda Priestly awoke with a foul taste in her mouth. She tried to place the unusual flavour, fighting to recall why her tongue detected hints of salt and pine. And vermouth.


Miranda Priestly awoke with a foul taste in her mouth. She tried to place the unusual flavour, fighting to recall why her tongue detected hints of salt and pine. And vermouth. Groggily, she stretched her tight back muscles, and froze. Someone else was in her bed. Some _person _was actually sharing the lonely sleeping space of Runway's editor in chief. _Wonderful_.

Brushing the stubborn forelock out of her eyes, she noted with wry displeasure she seemed to be wearing some sort of kitschy red velvet hat, which jingled when she swiped it off and tossed it to the floor. Lolling her head sideways, she was to be greeted with the vision of the peacefully snoring form of her art director.

Miranda inhaled sharply, and pulled the comforter over her head. _Priceless_. Dimly, her mind moved backwards to the evening before. Panicking, her eyes flickered from side to side as she grasped brief flashes of _Runway's_ annual Christmas soiree. Usually, her token appearance at such an even was curt and lasted only long enough so she could say she'd made an effort.

This year, she had been feeling a strange need for camaraderie. Greg, her first ex husband, had lured her twins to England for the holidays with promises of meeting the young star of that new _Potter_ film, and Miranda, helpless against the budding lusts of her teenage daughters had acquiesced to their heartfelt pleas to spend Christmas with their father. So, lonely and slightly demoralized, Miranda had allowed herself to actually _engage_ with those of her employ. And had she engaged! The woman pressed a hand to her pounding heart and noted with ire the lack of fabric separating her palm from her breast. No top. No bra. Her hand travelled reluctantly lower.

She winced. Definitely no underwear. A voice muffled by the thick down over her head startled her.

"I know you're awake. I felt you cringing."

Miranda groaned and pushed the blanket off of her face. "What in god's name are _you _doing here?" She glared at the smirking visage of the art director.

"I believe," he began mildly, "that last night you mentioned something about 'coming back to your place.'"

The dove haired woman sighed. "Did I?"

The hazy memory of a silver gilt woman pressing up against him in a dirty, nameless taxi percolated through the fuddled miasma of the man's hangover.

"You seduced me!" Nigel accused suddenly, sounding shocked but not at all surprised. Miranda's lips pursed into a tight bow, though her eyes shone with the thrill of a conquest.

"Probably." She turned in the bed, making sure to hold the sheets over her breasts. She untangled a hand and pointed an accusing finger. "You, however, were the one who decided a fifth, sixth and _seventh_ round of dirty gin martinis were in order. You're not a large man, Nigel. I'm sure it was an effortless endeavour to collect you from your bar stool and pour you into my bed." Miranda fidgeted with the corner of the sheet. "Was I good?"

Nigel narrowed his eyes. "Honestly?" he asked, running a perplexed hand over his balding head. "I can't remember."

The editor in chief of _Runway_ passed soothing fingers over her eyes and rubbed at her throbbing temple. "I'd be offended," she confessed when the dull ache subsided enough to speak, "but frankly, neither can I."

Nigel chuckled bemusedly. Miranda prickled.

"And what exactly is it about this situation you find so amusing?"

Nigel cupped a hand over his mouth to forestall further giggling, and glanced sideways at her with a knowing look. "It's true, what they say."

Miranda rolled her eyes. "I'm sure I'm going to regret the inquiry- but what is that?"

Nigel lay back and laced his fingers behind his head. "Miranda Priestly," he began with feigned reverence. She hoped it was feigned. "So gorgeous she'll turn straight women gay, and gay men straight as rulers. Apparently," he continued blithely, "I was not the exception."

"Apparently," the woman countered icily, "the seventh martini you tossed back like gingerale didn't hurt, either."

Nigel tried to look reproached, but he couldn't help the slightly satisfied smile that crept onto his face. He ignored the shards of icicles jabbing at him from Miranda's pointed glare. "I bagged Miranda Priestly," he remarked with much disbelief. "How strange."

Miranda tried to muffle with little success an amused snort of laughter. _Bagged? _She didn't get 'bagged.' Miranda got fucked, she got pounded- hell, some people had even tried to make love to her, but _bagged_? The expression left much to be desired. Still, a drunken foray into the realm of questionable sexuality didn't usually fall under her usual parameters for describing a night of passion. Had it been passionate? She regarded the small, middle-aged italiano occupying the other half of her bed with curiosity. She decided she was glad she'd been too drunk to remember.

And how drunk had she been? With a surge of terror, Miranda leaned over to her nightstand and started frantically rummaging through the drawer. She knew she'd had them there _somewhere_- but what if, in her compromised condition she hadn't thought to- where fuck _were_ they-

"Looking for these?"

Miranda whipped around and saw Nigel holding out an opened box of condoms, a soothing expression on his face. She exhaled heavily.

"Thank _god_," she murmured, snatching the rubbers out of his hand and setting them reverently in her lap. "That would have been absolutely the last thing I needed." She stared at the box, relieved at least that one of them, in their inebriated stupor, had thought to open up the package.

Nigel snickered. Feeling somewhat drained, Miranda tilted her head towards the amused art director.

"Now what?"

"You've got-" the man choked a little on his mirth and pointed at her. "There's a bit of tinsel stuck in your hair." Miranda pursed her lips and quirked an eyebrow towards the offending decoration. Nigel continued to stare at it like it was the funniest thing on earth, while she fumed.

"Well," she began, trying to keep her voice level. "Take it out, then!"

Commanded to action, he leaned across the bed and removed the shining plastic from the platinum lock of hair it was tangled in.

The woman stared at the bit of silver twined around hair knuckles, then groaned and buried her face in her hands, muttering something that sounded an awful lot like _fucking hell_. Nigel sat up, and resisted the urge to place a comforting hand on the smooth back displayed before him. Neither of them had enough alcohol left in their systems for _that_.

"Buck up, princess-" he offered jovially. "It's not so bad. We're both consenting adults, we used protection, and I'm sure you were a complete fox in the sack."

Miranda peered at the man between her fingers, finally removing her hands to affix him with an eviscerating stare. "I _suppose _I should thank you for your vote of confidence concerning my-- sexual prowess. However, I wouldn't start carving a notch into your Armani belt just yet- I haven't decided whether or not I'm going to have to kill you to garner your silence."

Nigel tried to look hurt. "You know I won't say anything, Miranda." She looked unconvinced, and wary. He dropped the charade and tried for sincerity.

"_Miranda_, honey- I would _never_ say anything to jeopardize your reputation. You must know that."

The woman next to him nodded vaguely, looking lost.

"Miranda?"

She sighed, pulling her knees up and resting her chin in the hollow between them. "I know, I know. Why don't we get some coffee, get dressed- carry on. Yes?"

"Reverse the order of the first and second directives, and you've got a deal Priestly. No one, least of all you, needs to look at my bare belly sober."

A warm peal of laughter escaped from between Miranda's parted lips. "Fine- I'll close my eyes to spare myself, then I'll meet you downstairs by the espresso machine. You do know how to work it, don't you?"

Nigel shot her a withering _are you serious_ look, and shifted under the blankets. Smirking, Miranda dutifully closed her eyes while Nigel dressed, and when the man had left the room, she got out of the bed, glancing around for her grey cashmere robe. She found it, and a pair of silk pyjama pants, which slid comfortingly over her legs as she put them on. With a wry smile, she picked the Santa hat off the floor and whimsically pulled it on over her dishevelled silver hair.

After all, it _was_ Christmas.


End file.
